


let me be the light that leads you home

by problematiquefave



Series: AUgust 2020 [7]
Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Minor Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Two Shot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:48:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25773847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/problematiquefave/pseuds/problematiquefave
Summary: As a child, Gawain is brought along by his father to a Fey town under threat from the Red Paladins. There he meets a young ash folk named Lancelot, recently rescued from one of their massacres. When the town burns, he never expects to meet the boy again.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Series: AUgust 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1859875
Comments: 15
Kudos: 91
Collections: AUgust 2020





	let me be the light that leads you home

Gawain peaks out from behind his father’s hip, a rush of salty sea air nipping at his cheeks. The port of Wyndarbor is one of the Fey’s best kept secrets – or so his father said on the ride down from Dewdenn. True or not, he knows they wouldn’t be here if it was completely safe; he’s young but aware of what his father does, aware of the role he plays in the resistance against the man-blood church.

Yet, as Gawain peers around Wyndarbor, he sees no signs of danger. Finfolk hawk their goods at stalls, rare treasures from the bottom of the ocean. Selkies wear cloaks made of their seal skins, bartering for said goods. There are fauns, tusks, and even a Fey from the desert kingdoms.

His father follows the direction of his eyeline. “A jinn. Not common here but they tell fascinating stories,” he says.

Eyes widening, Gawain looks up at his father. “You’ve met one before?”

He nods. “Many, many years ago. In this very town, actually. He told me Britannia was too cold for his like, but that his people were interested in the histories and philosophies of others.”

“Phi-los-ophy?” the little boy asks, wrinkling the skin between his eyebrows

His father ruffles his hair. “I’ll explain it later. I’ve got to meet someone first – here.” He grabs Gawain’s hand and presses a small bag of coins into his palm. “Look around. Play with some of the other kids. Buy something if you find a treasure – but don’t let the finfolk take all you’ve got.”

He scrunches up his face, determined in the way little kids are, and nods.

“Good boy,” his father says. “I’ll be back soon.”

Clutching the bag of coins close to his chest, Gawain watches as his father turns from him. When he loses sight of his father’s back in the crowd, he exhales deeply and looks around. Once more, he’s nearly overwhelmed by the bustle of daily life in Wyndarbor. Uncertainty roots him to the spot until his eyes snag on the jinn again.

In a distant corner of his mind, he hears his mother’s voice. _Don’t bother strangers_. He envisions the stern glare that would accompany her scolding but she’s half a day’s ride from here; full of his youthful curiosity, his feet are already leading him towards the jinn before he can shake her image.

He stops behind the jinn’s back, suddenly realizing he hadn’t prepared anything to say. Before he can figure something out or turn tail on an arguably bad idea, the jinn turns to look at him.

“Can I help you?”

He swallows. “Oh, it’s just—I’ve never seen a Fey from the desert kingdoms before.”

A smile spreads across the jinn’s face, warm like his complexion. “Do you know what type of Fey I am?” he asks.

“Yes, sir!” Nerves quickly give way to excitement. “You’re a jinn. My father says it’s too cold for your type here but you’re very interesting.”

The jinn laughs, the noise fading into a hum. “It is much colder here than my home,” he says, pulling his coat tighter around him before sinking into a crouch. “But I brave it because I find the Fey here as interested as they do me. Tell me, what type of Fey are you?”

“Sky folk, sir.”

“Yes, yes,” he murmurs under his breath – as if speaking more to himself than Gawain. “Sky folk look most like the man-bloods.”

He spits at the mention of humans, earning himself another laugh from the jinn.

“Do you know many other types of Fey?” Gawain asks.

The jinn nods. “Indeed. Of course, there are those from my lands. We do not divide ourselves into clans the way you do; we are all Jinn, some of us with different powers. Here, I’ve met sky folk, finfolk, faun folk, snake folk”—he paused, scratching his chin—“tusk folk, and even ash folk.”

“Ash folk?” Gawain’s voice rose an octave as he asks. “But—They’re all gone! My father said so.”

“Not all,” the jinn says, shaking his head. “Would you like to meet one?”

Gawain cocks his head to the side. “There’s one in Wyndarbor?”

“There is. And—” The jinn stands, looking him over. “I’d say he’s just about your age. Well?”

Gawain eagerly nods. The jinn beckons him to follow, leading him from the market stalls, towards a nearby shop door. He squints at the ruins on the sign next to the door. _Healer_.

“Eireen,” the jinn calls, shutting the door with a gentle click. “Is the ash boy awake?”

A snake woman appears at the top of the stars, her black hair hanging in a limp braid. “He is.”

The jinn smiles down at Gawain, gesturing for him to go up the stairs first. At the top of the stairs, he’s met with the snake woman’s narrow eyes. He hunches up his shoulders, looking back at the jinn for reassurance.

“I thought a boy his own age might cheer him up,” the jinn says to Eireen.

She snorts, placing her hands on her hips. “Nothing will make up for what he’s suffered.” Before Gawain can ask what they mean, she turns and stalks towards the end of the hallway. The jinn points towards a cracked open door.

Gawain steps inside. The sparsely furnished room is illuminated only by the light spilling in through the window. It cases a blueish hue. He feels the presence of the jinn at his back and the weight of the ash boy’s eyes on him.

“Lancelot, how are you feeling?” the jinn asks.

Lancelot doesn’t look away from him. “Who is this?”

The jinn nudges his shoulder. “I’m Gawain. It’s nice to meet you,” he says.

When Lancelot doesn’t respond, the jinn adds, “I thought you might be lonely.” He pushes Gawain’s shoulder this time. “Go on.”

When Gawain turns his head, the jinn is gone. Lancelot still hasn’t said anything. Closer now, he notices dark streaks running down the ash boy’s cheeks. His brow creases.

“Have you been crying?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, a hint of offense in his voice.

“Well, just—The streaks on your face. You look like you’ve been crying.”

Lancelot scoffs. “They’re the mark of the ash folk.” His voice makes Gawain feel foolish for not knowing.

“I’ve never met an ash folk before.”

Lancelot glances down at his sheets. “There weren’t many of us left.”

“Weren’t?” he asks as he crawls onto the other end of the bed. Despite not asking for permission, Lancelot’s response is only a half-hearted glare.

“The paladins burned my village.” Gawain swallows, his heart skipping a beat at the mention of the paladins. The red-clad man-bloods his father has been fighting. “I hid and when I came out—I didn’t see anyone.”

“Maybe they hid too?”

Lancelot shook his head. “Anyone _alive_.”

Gawain scowls, not sure how to respond. He’s met other Fey who’ve lost loved ones to the church and its brothers. He’s never had to think of comforting them, however.

“Well—” he starts, straightening his shoulders. “You’re in Wyndarbor now! Safest Fey town in all the land. My dad says they couldn’t take this place even in their best dreams.”

Lancelot regards his assurance warily. “Really?”

“ _Really_ ,” he says, leaning forward. “They’ve got more protections than you can imagine on this place and they don’t invite man-bloods here. They’d have to be able to sniff out Fey to find it!”

“I can do that.”

Gawain cocks his head to the side. “Do what?”

He shrugged. “Smell other Fey. They said it’s good for tracking.”

His lips formed a silent oh, eyes widening. “You could use that then! When you’re older – you could help people like my dad find hidden Fey communities and protect them from the paladins.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Lancelot asks, screwing up his nose.

“It is. But my father’s strong! Not a Fey out there who’s better with a sword!” he crows. “I’m going to be like him when I’m grown. You could too.”

His ash-streaked face was unimpressed.

Snorting, Gawain repositioned himself so he could lean back against the wall. “What did your father do?”

Lancelot averted his gaze. “I don’t know.”

“Wha—” Gawain cut himself off. He didn’t need to know what that meant; he could make the connection between the secrecy of the ash folk’s existence and his presence here, alone and sullen. “What about you mother?”

“She did whatever the village needed her too. What of yours?”

“She makes clothes,” he said, the momentary awkwardness fading. “Dyes the cloth, sews them, patches things she’s brought. It hurts her fingers but she says she likes it a lot.” When Lancelot says nothing, he glances around the room, searching for something else. “Haven’t you got any toys?”

His brows furrow. “No.”

“The jinn didn’t bring you any?” he asks. “I bet they’ve got loads of interesting toys in the desert kingdoms. Like how the faun have flutes you can play that cause flowers to bloom. Except, I’m not very good at using it – some of the fauns can make pictures with the flowers but I don’t know how to do that. What sort of toys did you have at home?”

“I don’t—” Lancelot stops, frowning. From what Gawain can tell, he frowns a lot. It would be nice to see the ash boy smile. “We had these – they’re not toys, but – it was this vessel, with this powder inside, and you’d light a string that went into the vessel and it’d ignite the powder. Then it’d shoot up into the air and explode in colors and art.”

Gawain gasps. “That sounds so neat! I wish I could see one.”

Lancelot shrugs. “I don’t know how to make them. The old kids did but—” He looks to the side; Gawain purses his lips at the return of his sadness. He knows he should be more understanding but he’s trying to help – _wants to help_ – and it’s not working.

“Maybe you could figure it out? Surely you saw one of them make it!”

“I don’t know how to make the powder,” he admits. “Mother said I’d learn when I was older – all ash folk learn it.”

“You’re not the last one left,” he reassures, despite the fact he’d thought there one none left earlier. “They said all of your kind were gone from Britannia. Obviously, they were wrong, and even then they said they weren’t all gone. Just not here. Maybe the jinn can help you find more.”

“He wants to leave me here, I think,” he says. “But I also think he doesn’t know what to do with me.”

A grin spreads across Gawain’s face. “If he does, you can come with us!” Lancelot’s eyes narrow in confusion, spurring him on. “My dad and me, I mean. You can come back with us to Dewdenn and, when we’re older, we can look for others like you. I can show you my faun flute!”

For the first time since they started talking, the corner of Lancelot’s lips twitch upwards. “Maybe I could play it better than you.”

It feels like a victory.

Gawain opens his mouth to retort, stopped only by the soft rasp of knuckles against wood. Two sets of eyes swing to the doorway, meeting the gentle face of the jinn. He holds a plan cloth bag in the hand he hadn’t used to knock. “I brought treats,” he says.

Lancelot’s excitement is non-existent in comparison to Gawain’s sudden exuberance, but he sits up, leaning forward with interest as the jinn crosses the room. He kneels in front of the bed, unfolding the bag so they can see what he brought. They were small dough balls, breaded and deep-fried.

“I know what those are!” Gawain exclaims, reaching for one without asking permission. He bites it in half as the jinn offers the other to Lancelot, a red trickle running down his chin. “The faun make them,” he adds – with a mouthful of food – as the other boy regards his warily. “It’s just fruit jam inside.”

Lancelot takes a smaller bite. He chews before speaking and none of the filling gets on his face. “It’s sweet.”

Gawain pops the other half of his into his mouth. “I love them. They’re so much sweeter than the honey bread we make at home.” He swallows the rest of it with a loud gulp. “Did you make anything special at home?”

Lancelot glances between him and the jinn before shrugging. “Nothing special.”

“Nothing?”

He shakes his head.

“I bet there was something. I’ll get it out of you some day.”

His words draw a quiet chuckle from the jinn. “It seems you two are getting along nicely.”

“Of course we are!” Gawain puffs out his chest. “Mother says I’m very charming.”

“Just don’t let that go to you head,” he says, patting the bed before rising. “I’ll leave you two be then.” He turns to leave.

“Oh, wait!” The jinn pauses, glancing back at him. “Can you keep an eye out for my father? He’ll want to find me when he’s done with his meeting.”

The jinn nods.

When he’s gone, Gawain returns to peppering Lancelot with questions.

By the time Gawain’s father appears in the doorway, the clouds have burned off and the sun sits low in the western sky. A deck of cards has appeared from somewhere and Gawain is trying to teach Lancelot tricks he learned from an older boy. His father clears his throat, catching their attention.

“It’s time to go.”

Gawain frowns. “Already?”

“ _Already?_ ” his father mimics. “Boy, it’s been hours. Get up.” There was a harshness to his voice that was completely negated by the curl of his mouth and twinkle in his eyes. “Say goodbye to your friend.”

“Can he come with us?” Gawain asks, shooting puppy dog eyes at his father, neither saying goodbye nor getting up

“Er…” His father reaches up, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s something the adults would need to talk about,” he answers, glancing between them. “But I’ll be back in Wyndarbor tomorrow – I can talk to his guardian about arranging something.”

Gawain glances back at his friend. Lancelot gives him a small nod.

He hops from the bed, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. He waves at his new friend as he takes his father’s hand. “I’ll see you soon, Lancelot.”

The glimpse he catches is of Lancelot waving back.

When they arrive back in Dewdenn, the moon is high in the sky, surrounded by glittering stars. His father ushers him into their hut and sends him straight to bed; he’s gone by the time Gawain awakes in the morning. Excitement twists up his nerves through the day – hopeful that Lancelot will be with his father when the man returns.

Yet, as the sky begins to darken again, his father hasn’t returned. Nothing to worry about though.

His father gallops into Dewdenn the next morning. There’s bags beneath his eyes, his clothes are crumpled, and sweat shines on his skin. Gawain pushes his way through the crowd that forms around his father but goes unnoticed by the adults.

He’s shaking his head to one of the elders. “It’s gone,” he says. “Wyndarbor is gone. The finfolk escaped but—The rest of them—”

His heart plummets.

His father doesn’t need to finish his sentence for the elders, the bystanders, or Gawain to know what he means.

Wyndarbor is gone; everyone in it is dead.

The fauns, the jinn, and Lancelot.

**Author's Note:**

> my first cursed fic whoo! i intended this just to be a one-shot but when i saw how long this childhood section got to be, i decided to split it up. part two will be my first priority once i'm done writing for au august. and so long as that part doesn't get away from me, it should only be a two-shot.
> 
> comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> [my tumblr.](https://problematiquefics.tumblr.com/)


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